


Queenie & the Cretins

by 5yenwish (iamacamera)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Can you guess which anon camshow viewer is Tendou?, Exhibitionism, First-years as Third-years, M/M, Sadomasochism, Submissive!Tsukishima, Tsukishima POV 3rd Person, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-04-18 16:26:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4712636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamacamera/pseuds/5yenwish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kei thinks he might be the world’s fussiest masochist.  In order for him to get off everything has to be exactly in order.  That’s why it’s really better if he does it himself.  He’s got a system worked out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Queenie & the Cretins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miff/gifts).



> This is by far the most explicit thing I've ever written. Some of it is straight up savage. The characters are all 18 or older.
> 
> Consider yourselves warned.
> 
> Enjoy, nerds.

Tsukishima Kei is not afraid of being alone. He knows many things about himself, unlike others his age, all of which he is sensible enough to refrain from sharing with those around him. This is just one of them.

For example, he knows he doesn’t like being told what to do, he hates it when people talk down to him, and he can’t stand being the center of attention.

He also thinks he might be the world’s fussiest masochist. This is unrelated.

There’s no way of verifying this conjecture, that he’s the fussiest. He’s never actually spoken to another person who considers themselves to be a masochist, and he doesn’t think he’d like it if he did.

It is not a topic which is open for discussion, not even with people he thinks he can trust.

Other people’s opinions don’t matter to him anyhow. They get in the way. He doesn’t need anyone else’s attitudes cluttering his neatly organized perspective, which he has spent a considerable amount of energy forming through days of daydreaming meditation.

He does not crave the comfort of praise, or of validation. His opinions are considered. In order for him to get off, really get off, everything has to be exactly in order.

It’s better if he does it himself. He’s got a system worked out.

His urges don’t spill over into other parts of his life. He makes sure of this. He is very careful.

That’s why he has to be home by 9 o’clock on Fridays. It’s important.

After practice, he leaves without bothering to say goodbye, and heads directly to the bakery, where he admires the individually wrapped cakes, lined up neatly in little rows, with more intensity than most people would deem strictly appropriate. Their geometry pleases him, perfect little squares and circles, each exactly the same.

Unlike people, cakes with their precise measurements are all equal.

He wants to ruin them.

The colors are so pretty: laminated sheets of lime greens and soft yellows, puffs of white, dotted or dashed with black chocolate. In a world without consequences, he would step behind the counter, open the case, and smear them all together. Maybe he would crush them in his hands to feel the spongy cake and the cool, slick icing squeeze out between his fingers. Then he would close the case, step back around the counter and survey the destruction with vindictive satisfaction.

The pinks especially he likes. Pink is an erotic color. The way the gel glistens over the candied berries catches his eye.

“Can I help you?” the clerk interrupts, probably because she is new and does not yet know that she would be better off leaving him alone.

“I doubt it,” he mutters.

“Oh,” she says. She shifts uncomfortably. Her voice is soft.

He almost feels bad about scaring her. He revises, “I mean, if you would box up these three I would appreciate it.”

He buys a round one, a square one, and a little wedge, each with strawberries and cream. She doesn’t meet his eyes while she rings him up.

He can’t wait to get home.

In his room, he feels safe. There, no one cares what he does. From the moment he wakes up in the morning, every step he takes through the clutter and the crush of his day is one step closer to his room, where he belongs. He walks with purpose, and this is why.

It's colder than it looks outside. The trees in the moonshine are a dark lattice. His shoes make hard noises against the sidewalk as he carries his prizes home, cradling them carefully so as not to damage them.

When he turns the key in the lock to his front door, the click of the mechanism springing open spreads palpable relief through his shoulders and down his back.

“I’m home,” he intones as he steps over the threshold.

It’s sort of a joke. The lights inside are all turned off.

His parents are away more often than they’re not. Their marriage always seemed professional than domestic. They keep a filing cabinet in their bedroom. In this home the family passes one another like ships in the night.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t care. This arrangement suits him. He does as he pleases.

The first thing he does after he shrugs off his jacket and toes off his loafers is climb directly up the stairs with his cakes. He locks his bedroom door behind him.

The day with its cares and perplexities is over. Banished are the disturbing thoughts of the outside world. Everything is quiet.

Quiet inside his head is safe. Silence around him, in his environment, is bad. It has to be kept at bay with headphones. If he isn’t careful, silence becomes the hunter and the hunted. Just to be extra careful he turns up the volume on his music.

Ten minutes til 9 -- there’s still time to kill. Heavily, he sits down at his desk. The chair creaks under him.

Fiddling with a pen, he texts Yamaguchi, who he knows is supposed to be picking up an extra shift at the grocery store, just to annoy him: _I’m having cake for dinner._

As always, the response is almost immediate: _Don’t you dare, Tsukki._

Tsukishima does dare.

Imagining Yamaguchi in his little Shimada Mart apron, Tsukishima sends him a picture of the round cake because it has a face, and little ears like a mouse. His friend doesn’t seem to appreciate this. He doesn’t answer.

He’s busy, too.

Tsukishima clicks his tongue. He throws open his desk drawer. Using the pen he gropes around underneath it to find the hole he’s drilled there. The false bottom comes out easily.

Everyone’s busy! Why bother? What’s the point?

He lines his supplies up across his desk: cake, markers, a white board, rubber bands that are so big they sort of look silly, condoms, lube, black latex gloves, a sleek pink vibrator, and a pink lollipop for good measure.

He turns the vibrator on to test the batteries. Nothing happens. Carelessly he drops it back into the drawer, and pulls out another. His dildos are legion. The second one buzzes happily at him.

“Buzz, indeed,” he replies. He turns it off.

Why stock shelves when he could be paid to diddle himself? Why work a cash register when he can monetize his inborn talent for being a little shit?

Why not? That’s the real question.

He takes a picture to share with his twitter followers. They’re thirsty bastards. He likes to rile them up. It’s fun to spend the week whipping them into a frenzy. It gives him something to look forward to.

 _”I hope you come see me tonight~~”_ he captions the picture, and posts it.

Then, he unwraps his lollipop slowly and deliberately, with mindfulness, as though it is a treasure.

Online, he has a small but growing following. Unlike some people, they are rabidly devoted. So devoted, in fact, that they warrant his caution.

Fitfully, he rolls away from his desk. Before his camshow starts he takes _everything_ of personal significance off the walls of his bedroom. He shrugs off his gakuran and hangs it in the closet with his volleyball jersey, since they both clearly mark him as a student of Karasuno High School. Anything that would give his viewers an idea of who he is or how to find him, he hides away.

Out from under the bed, he pulls a shoebox. His academic and athletic awards, pictures of Yamaguchi and the fourth gym boys smiling, and his brother’s dinosaur collection -- they all come off his shelves and go into the box for safekeeping. He puts the lid on the box, and shoves it back under the bed.

This ritual complete, behind his locked door, he rolls back over to his desk. It’s 9 o’clock, and he’s almost ready.

Inside, he is flying.

He replaces his headphones with a microphone, one that sits just so at the corner of his mouth, and plugs it into his laptop. Face lit by the pale glow of the screen, he presses: **[[On Air]]**

It’s easy to be himself. But sometimes, he finds, it’s better to be someone else.

His viewers know him as Queenie279. Nobody knows that’s a handle given to him by his only childhood friend as a joke when they were kids. It’s his little secret, and it makes him feel safe.

He flexes his bare toes on the hardwood floor, and smiles into the camera for them. Around his round, pink lollipop he greets the same way he has every week for the past year, “Good evening, perverts. Welcome back.”

Here people wait for his arrival.

He’s making a name for himself within the diminutive community of his specific kinks. If it didn’t seem like such a hassle, he could make a mint selling home-grown porn, now that he doesn’t have to lie about his age.

Already, he makes quite a bit going live once weekly. He’s good at this. As quiet as he is he has a natural talent for working people up. It runs in the family. What’s branding except manufacturing an image with attitude? There’s a method to this.

He advertises himself on the exercise in vanity that is his Twitter account. When he takes selfies a sick part of him imagines he’s broadcasting them to the nasty old queens whose heads turn when he walks down the street. Being watched, but untouchable, excites him.

The fantasy of shattering his frigidity is what he sells. His followers labor under the illusion that he is attainable. He plays games with them.

Sometimes they buy chances to watch him play roulette with punishments. Sometimes he has them purchase tokens they can use to vote over what happens next. Sometimes they bid for the right to tell him what to do. Sometimes they simply choose actions from a menu.

Being bid over is his favorite. There are certain things he’ll only do once, collectively, his patrons have spent enough money on him. The website he uses to broadcast takes a large cut, and uses a convoluted coin system whose intention, he imagines, is to make patrons lose track of how much they’ve actually forked over.

He only gives them an hour to accomplish their goal of getting him out of his pants. He doesn’t have all night.

Watching them fight, and form alliances, to win the bidding makes him feel desired. They throw money at him. Cash is the physical representation of hours of tedious work and they just blow it on him. It makes no sense. It’s absurd.

He doesn’t really do it for the money. But, he can’t help but smile.

Head bowed, he looks up into the camera, gaze coy under his eyelashes. “Did you miss me?”

His chat flickers to life with responses: 

 

> > ** _owlbrows920_ 5/12/2014 21:00:31 :** yeah, queenie!!1!1 let’s play~~ ( ˘ ³˘)♥♡♥♡♥  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:00:35 :** I think about you every day.  
>  > ** _gaylien_ 5/12/2014 21:00:43 :** Why do you torment us like this? (╥_╥)  
>  > ** _eagle-eye_ 5/12/2014 21:00:50 :** A week is too long between shows.

 

He laughs. Swirling the lollipop along his lips coats them in sugar. They feel slick. He licks them. The hard round candy makes him know, by contrast, that his mouth is soft and wet.

“You know the deal. Pay the fee if you want to see more. Beggars get blocked.”

In his private shows he does much more than sit around sucking lollipops. As he fiddles with his music, his most loyal viewers buy in. 

 

> > **5/12/2014 21:01:15 **:** **[[думаю-монстра has paid 10 coins for private show]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:01:30 **:** **[[owlbrows920 has paid 10 coins for private show]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:01:41 **:** **[[dangerprawn has paid 10 coins for private show]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:01:55 **:** **[[OoSuicideKingoO has paid 10 coins for private show]]**  
>  ** > **5/12/2014 21:02:07 **:** **[[**soda~pop** has paid 10 coins for private show]]**  
>  ** > **5/12/2014 21:02:12 **:** **[[Kit-t-Kat has paid 10 coins for private show]]****

 

Watching the coin counter scroll in the corner of his screen makes him feel alive.

He preens in his image on the screen: runs his fingers through his curls to make them sit just right, adjusts his headset over them, fiddles with the cuffs of his dress shirt as though to say, _‘Do you see what I’m wearing, so crisp and clean? Yes, much nicer than anything you own, isn’t it? I’m immaculate.’_

For this he earns two more viewers.

 

> > **5/12/2014 21:03:23 **:** **[[galien has paid 10 coins for private show]]**  
>  ** > **5/12/2014 21:03:40 **:** **[[kaijūfan has paid 10 coins for private show]]****

 

It isn’t enough.

“Come on,” he looks directly into the camera and challenges them. “I need an audience. I’m not starting until there’s at least two more of you.”

He knows what they pay to see. He knows what they need. He has just the thing. He slides the cakes into view. They like to watch him eat.

 

> > **5/12/2014 21:04:12 **:** **[[L’amour_OK has paid 10 coins for private show]]**  
>  ** > **5/12/2014 21:04:20 **:** **[[mnstrkmlwd has paid 10 coins for private show]]**  
>  ** > **5/12/2014 21:04:35 **:** **[[eagle-eye has paid 10 coins for private show]]****

 

Eleven viewers in less than five minutes, this pleases him. He’d try for more but crowd control becomes unwieldy with groups of a dozen or more. Sometimes he thinks it might be nice to have a bouncer or an admin.

Attention focused on his lollipop he tells them, “You all better tip me well tonight. These sweets weren’t cheap.”

He sends out the invite for tonight’s private chat. His followers join him.

 

> > ** _dangerprawn_ 5/12/2014 21:05:41 :** Brat. (一。一;;）  
>  > ** _OoSuicideKingoO_ 5/12/2014 21:05:46 :** Don’t you have a real job yet?  
>  > ** _kaijūfan_ 5/12/2014 21:06:05 :** Aren’t you about to graduate high school?  
>  > ** _**soda~pop**_ 5/12/2014 21:06:10 :** Did you sit for your exams?  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:06:15 :** I hope you come to school in Tokyo. (⊙∇⊙☆)

 

“No. Exams are in January. If I don’t get into University of Tokyo I’m going to end up dead. Just like my grandfather who never went to college, and died of old age,” Tsukishima deadpans even though the idea of not getting into a national university actually makes his anxiety spike.

He reaches for his headphones. They aren’t there. So, he folds his fingers and rests them over his lap. It’s important to stay very still if one wants to project confidence. An easy way to accomplish this is to pick one thing to do with your hands, just one, and set your mind to doing just that.

He provokes them. “You’re boring me. I’m not here to talk about school. If you keep it up I might as well turn off the camera.”

The threat is real. He has, in fact, walked away in the middle of a show before. He’ll do it again, if they don’t cooperate.

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:07:36 : ** Your mouth looks so good around that lollipop.  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:07:40 :** But, something makes me think you’ve never actually sucked dick. Have you?  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:07:44 :** Huh? Did I guess right? You do this show but in real life you’re frigid. Aren’t you?（｀ヮ´）  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:07:50 : ** You want me to teach you? （｀ー´）

 

That’s better.

Crystalline shards of adrenaline shiver raw down his nerves. Reading their distasteful comments does it for him. He enjoys the abuse, even when it’s flat and frankly uninspired, and doesn’t cut like he wishes it would. Some belligerent part of him wants them to make it personal. He hurls insults right back.

“I find you revolting,” he replies with a smile. He means it. “What are the rules for my show, cretins?”

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:08:05 : ** Aww… you’re mad. That means I nailed it~~  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:08:07 : ** It’s OK. I think it’s sorta cute. ｡ﾟ(TヮT)ﾟ｡  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:08:11 :** Inquire about Queenie’s personal life at your own risk.  
>  > ** _kaijūfan_ 5/12/2014 21:08:12 :** Don’t talk about your dick.  
>  > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:08:24 :** Queenie’s undies are too cute to come completely off! No questions. (^_−)☆

 

The Russian annoys him. He praises the rest of them them for their basic competency nonetheless, “That’s right, cretins. Very good.”

 

> > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:08:45 :** Are you cut, Queenie?

 

 _‘How crass you all are,’_ he thinks. _‘Asking these questions before I’m ready for them. Warm me up first, at least.’_

He imagines being able to shoot his resentment through the internet in the form of lightning bolts, which would disintegrate his victims, and leave behind only the vague, charred outline of human beings, like pictures he’s seen of what happens to people in nuclear disasters.

He does not let onto his resentment, however. That would be unprofessional.

He replies mildly, “Am I circumcised? I sure am. I’m as smooth as a boiled carrot.”  

 

> > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:09:07 :** Show me, slut.

 

 _‘Gross,’_ he silently scoffs.

The cretins don’t seem to grasp that he’s mocking them. Attempting to reason with these people is like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

Folding his legs, he leans back in his chair. “I don’t feel like talking anymore. Let’s play the auction game. Buy my voice back.”

 

> > ** _L’amour_OK_ 5/12/2014 21:09:25 :** Say something!  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:09:36 :** Amour, you helpless noob. It doesn’t work like that. He said we’re playing the auction game. You gotta pay him. At least one of us has to outbid another to tell him what to do.  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:09:42 :** Someone bid with me. We’ll work together.  
>  > ** _*soda~pop*_ 5/12/2014 21:09:50 :** No way. I prefer him quiet. He whines too much.  
>  > ** _kaijūfan_ 5/12/2014 21:10:02 :** Yeah. It doesn’t matter to me either way if he talks.  
>  > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:10:17 :** Me neither. I’d rather save my coins for later.  
>  > ** _owlbrows920_ 5/12/2014 21:10:25 :** I’ll help, Kit.  
>  > ** _*soda~pop*_ 5/12/2014 21:10:30 :** Don’t.

 

That’s right. That’s what he likes. Being fought over as though he is an object is a rush.

No one knows he does this. No one knows he’s like this. People venture that he’s some sort of twisted. Ever since he can remember they always have. But, this sort of warped?

Girls wouldn’t confess to him anymore. Boys wouldn’t envy him anymore. They would laugh. Humiliation is a reversal: desired to forsaken, secure to insecure, exalted to degraded.

It’s liberating.

He closes his eyes to corral the feeling, and breathes through it, in and out.

The very idea of the fear and the shame of someday being found out makes his blood run hot and cold at once, the way it does whenever he is humiliated, or witnesses the humiliation of another.

His glasses slide down. He peeks at the screen. They haven’t decided yet. This is taking too long. 

 

> > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:10:46 :** I just want his clothes off. Get to the point.  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:10:58 :** Asshole! Don’t insult Queenie like that. What he does is art.  
>  > ** _*soda~pop*_ 5/12/2014 21:11:10 :** Shut up, Kit. It’s just a camshow, you creep. It’s literally just some kid jerking off in his bedroom.  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:11:20 :** Pay attention. Look how good he feels just from this. It’s so hot.  
>  > ** _*soda~pop*_ 5/12/2014 21:11:31 :** Sicko, I think I’ll outbid you out of spite.

 

 _‘Be patient,’_ he reminds himself. _‘Relax. They’ll get around to it. They always do.’_

He wants to be disgraced by his viewers.

Humiliation captivates him: as an intellectual puzzle, as an anthropological study, as sexual recreation. In all ways it can, it does. His preoccupation starts and ends with the fact that humiliation, as an experience, involves several systemic contradictions.

He wants to understand them.

For example, consider the following. It is a fact that past triumphs set the stage for future humiliation. What is humiliation except the painful moment when one knows the reversibility of success, and of prominence?

The higher one rises, the greater the distance they have to fall. This is one of the many reasons it is prudent to exercise extreme caution when setting goals of any kind.

Whenever he sees another person humiliated he is seized by horror and fascination.

 _‘Stop it,’_ he always says.

 _‘That’s disgusting,’_ he always says. _‘Pathetic.’_

He wonders what’s wrong with them that they weren’t more careful. Their vulnerability angers him. He thinks this might be because he takes humiliation personally, even when it is not his own. When someone, anyone at all, is humiliated he feels empathy.

 _‘That person could be me,’_ he imagines, and it terrifies him.

Even if the person did something wrong, he empathizes.

Something wrong like, for example, lie for years to their little brother who idolized them. He wonders if that person’s humiliation is his own fault, and he feels guilty for it.

This is because humiliation is triangular. It requires the presence of three: the perpetrator, the victim, and the witness. Unlike guilt, and shame, which are private experiences, humiliation exists in the minds of witnesses.

Before he started doing this, shooting this sex show in secret, he studied humiliation by exacting it upon others, and by watching clip, after clip, after clip of American reality TV on YouTube.

 _‘Why do these people want to appear on television in humiliating guises and situations?’_ he wondered. The question plagued him. _‘Displaying a poorly groomed body. Singing badly. Stuttering. One would think that they’d want to hide their humiliation, rather than parade it.’_

Now he knows. Display, evidently, is healing -- steam released, trauma canceled.

It comforts him. Everything goes quiet.

He _needs_ it.

He grabs his whiteboard, and his marker. He writes: _‘I’m waiting.’_ Then he underlines it twice and shows it to the camera.

With that, the bidding starts. He watches with reserved fascination. It always happens so quickly. He doesn’t want to miss a thing. 

 

> > **5/12/2014 21:11:42 **:** **[[*soda~pop* has bid 1 coin]]**  
> ** > ** **5/12/2014 21:11:43 **:** **> >Error: Minimum bid 5 coins<<  
> ** ** ** > ** ** ** **5/12/2014 21:11:50 **:** **[[*soda~pop* has bid 5 coin]]**  
> ** ** ** ** > ** ** ** ** **5/12/2014 21:11:52 **:** **[[Kit-t-Kat has bid 6 coins]]**  
> ** ** ** ** ** > ** ** ** ** ** **5/12/2014 21:11:55 **:** **[[*soda~pop* has bid 7 coins]]**  
> ** ** ** ** ** ** > ** ** ** ** ** ** **5/12/2014 21:11:59 **:** **[[Kit-t-Kat has bid 9 coins]]**  
> ** ** ** ** ** ** ** > ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **5/12/2014 21:12:03 **:** **[[*soda~pop* has bid 10 coins]]**  
> ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** > ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **5/12/2014 21:12:08 **:** **[[Kit-t-Kat has bid 12 coins]]**  
> ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** > ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** _*soda~pop*_ 5/12/2014 21:12:12 :** ****************** Have it, jackass. ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **  
> **** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** > ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **5/12/2014 21:12:18 **:** _ **> >Going once: Kit-t-Kat -- 12 coins<<**  
> _** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **** > **5/12/2014 21:12:23 **:** _ **> >Going twice: Kit-t-Kat -- 12 coins<<**  
> _** > **5/12/2014 21:12:28 **:** _ **> >Going three times: Kit-t-Kat -- 12 coins<<**  
>  _**> ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** ** **5/12/2014 21:12:33****** ** ** ** **:******** _ ** _ ** _ ** _ **> >Winner: Kit-t-Kat!!<<**  
>  _**_**_**_********************> ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:12:35 :** In your face, Soda. Speak, Queenie. Take the lollipop out of your mouth so we can hear you clearly.

 

He likes it when they use his name. In a neat overhand arc he tosses the lollipop into his waste paper basket. “That’s right. Show me the money, old men.”

It amuses him to get paid to get off. Really, it does.

They like seeing his feet. He’s been told he has pretty arches. So, in order to flirt with them, he puts his feet up on the desk and lounges back. Flexing and relaxing his toes displays their curves.

Twirling the marker between his fingers he says, “I’m enjoying this. Don’t stop.” 

 

> > ** _Kit-t-Kat_   5/12/2014 21:13:55 :** Damn. You look good, Queenie.  
>  > ** _*soda~pop*_   5/12/2014 21:13:59 :** He always looks good.  
>  > ** _dangerprawn_   5/12/2014 21:13:01 :** I’m glad you two agree on something.  
>  > ** _galien_   5/12/2014 21:13:05 :** Preach, dangerprawn.  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:13:10 :** I want to make him hurt himself.  
>  > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:13:16 :** Why you gotta be like that?  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:13:36 :** Be like what? If you just want to watch a blond jerk it, go to another cam.  
>  > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:13:46 :** I like *this* blond.  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:13:50 **:** **[[mnstrkmlwd has bid 5 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:13:55 **:** **[[думаю-монстра has bid 8 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:13:56 **:** **[[mnstrkmlwd has bid 9 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:14:00 **:** **[[думаю-монстра has bid 10 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:14:05 **:** **[[L’amour_OK has bid 12 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:14:11 **:** **[[mnstrkmlwd has bid 13 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:14:14 **:** **[[думаю-монстра has bid 14 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:14:19 **:** _ **> >Going once: думаю-монстра -- 14 coins<<**  
> _** > **5/12/2014 21:14:24 **:** **[[mnstrkmlwd has bid 15 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:14:27 **:** **[[думаю-монстра has bid 16 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:14:32 **:** _ **> >Going once: думаю-монстра -- 16 coins<<**  
> _** > **5/12/2014 21:14:37 **:** _ **> >Going twice: думаю-монстра -- 16 coins<<**  
>  _**> **5/12/2014 21:14:42 **:** _ **>** **> Going three times: думаю-монстра -- 16 coins<<**  
>  _**> **5/12/2014 21:14:47 **:** _ **> >Winner: думаю-монстра!!<<**_**

 

“Someone’s a big spender tonight,” Tsukishima observes. It surprises him. He puts his feet back on the floor. “What would you like?”

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:15:07 :**  From this point forward, whenever you do something stupid make a tally mark on your body.    
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_  5/12/2014 21:15:12 : **In fact, make it somewhere others might see it.  
>  _> **думаю-монстра**_ **5/12/2014 21:15:30 :** Listen to me when I tell you that you need to make tally marks. Make one for the comment about college earlier, one for the weak joke about your dick, another for the stupid face you make when you’re turned on, and one more for your impeccable taste in terrible music.

 

That’s good, just personal enough to excite him. He can feel the breath in his lungs. It sounds rough to his own ears. Also, his face when he’s switched on, he supposes, is a bit stupid: eyebrows ticked up slightly, lips parted.

“Plastic Bertrand is a new wave classic,” he argues, and makes a show of rolling his sleeves up slowly. The felt tip of the marker is cold and wet on his skin. He shows them four black tally marks on his forearm. “It’s okay. I can forgive your ignorance, Mr. Russian. After all, you’re being so strict with me. I like it.”

The rest of them are into it now, too. They start bidding again quickly. 

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:16:15 :** I’m Japanese, and Plastic Bertrand is parody punk on a good day. But, OK.  
>  > ** _owlbrows209_ 5/12/2014 21:16:20 :** Are we not going to talk about all those cute cakes?  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:16:27 :** I don’t understand you feeding fetishists. But, I’ll help.  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:16:29 **:** **[[Kit-t-Kat has bid 5 coin]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:16:33 **:** **[[owlbrows209 has bid 6 coins]]**  
> ** > **5/12/2014 21:16:38 **:** _ **> >Going once: owlbrows209 -- 6 coins<<**  
> _** > **5/12/2014 21:16:43 **:** _ **> >Going twice: owlbrows209 -- 6 coins<<**  
> _** > **5/12/2014 21:16:48 **:** _ **> >Going three times: owlbrows209 -- 6 coins<<**  
> _** > **5/12/2014 21:16:43 **:** _**> >Winner: owlbrows209!!<<**  
> _** > ** _ _owlbrows209_ _ 5/12/2014 21:16:59 :** Thanks, bro. Queenie, look into the camera and eat the square cake out of the palm of your hand. ** _  
> _** > ** _ _eagle-eye_ _****5/12/2014 21:17:08 :** Try to be neat about it. ** _  
> _** > ** _ _owlbrows209_ _ 5/12/2014 21:17:16 :** No. You are absolutely not to be neat. Be very, very messy. Get it on your shirt, and I’ll tip you. ** _  
> _** > ** _ _galien_ _ 5/12/2014 21:17:24 :** lol Nasty! **  
> ** > ** _kaijūfan_ 5/12/2014 21:17:35 :** That’s the point, dumbass.

 

“As you wish,” he replies, as though this is a novel request.

It isn’t. This is how he got into camwhoring in the first place. Thing is, it all started out as a joke. Alone and bored in his room, having a snack after school, and making fun of randos on Chatroulette, he stumbled upon the fetish by mistake. Some guy started begging him, _‘Take another bite.’_

So, he did.

It was funny to see how much he could work men up over a piece of cake. It was hilarious. That is, until one day he turned the camera off and couldn’t calm down. Then, it started to be a game to see how long he could keep the camera on before he had to switch it off, and retreat to his bed where he was usually unable to still his hips against the blankets, and had to bite his pillow to silence himself.

This has since clearly grown completely out of control. But, he’s stopped questioning it.

He likes getting the icing on his fingers.

Cream icings, especially, he likes for the way they slick cool and evaporate with his body heat, leaving his skin sweet. At this point, it’s kind of embarrassing, how much he enjoys this.

Then again, that’s exactly his intention.

Carefully, he uses the little paper doily under the cake to tug it off the edge of the desk into his hand. There’s no way to neatly eat the cake holding it in his palm of his hand. This is where his self-control begins to erode.

In order to demonstrate how soft and wet his mouth is he dips between the layers and coats his pink tongue with cream. With his lips covering his teeth he bites gently so he can enjoy the contrasting textures of the spongy cake and the thick icing.

“Ha,” he sighs.

It feels so good! His self-indulgence is vulgar. The cake is so sweet it hurts his teeth. It may seem strange, absurd even, but it makes him want to fuck himself. He puts his free hand between his legs and clamps his fingers down firmly on the edge of his seat to prevent them from straying.

There are layers to his fetishism.

His viewers consider his sweet-tooth to be an expression of his eroticism. They like the fantasy of using this symbolic extension of his carnal appetites to control his body. Sometimes he’ll mention in passing that he has gained or lost a kilogram and his followers will, collectively, go crazy.

Moreover, eating messily feeds into his impulse to demean himself. Clothes are important. They communicate status. He wants to get his dirty. He enjoys the taboo of uncleanliness. Nice boys should want to be clean.

Actively choosing to exhibit his deviance for their pleasure and his own is an act of both agency and transgression. All this he knows about himself. That’s why he interacts with his desert like it’s a sex object. To him, it is.

It’s not so strange. Fetishes are only stories masquerading as objects.

He takes small thoughtful bites because he likes getting strawberries each time. Careful not to soil his microphone, he is nonetheless very messy. On the last bite, some of the cream dribbles down his chin and onto his shirt. He looks into the camera over the black rims of his glasses, and opens his mouth just wide enough to show them his clean, pink tongue.

"Done,” he announces simply, satisfied, and licks his fingers clean. He’s ready for more. He tells them, “There's still a mark from where you punished me last week. Wanna see?"

He loves this. It makes him so happy.

 

> > ** _owlbrows209_ 5/12/2014 21:24:30 :** Nice, Queenie. Good job. It’s awesome how hot you get when we tell you to eat.  
>  > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:24:41 :** Yes! Finally.  
>  > ** _kaijūfan_ 5/12/2014 21:24:45 :** I know, right? For real. Not like those other shows where they’re just doing it for money.  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:24:51 **:** **[[owlbrows209 has tipped 5 coins]]**  
> ** > ** _eagle-eye_ 5/12/2014 21:24:52 :** Of course we want to see it.  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:24:55 :** A stupid question.  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:25:02 :** Make another tally mark.

 

He likes this guy, even if he’s annoying. He draws one neat slash through the four existing marks. He shows them. “More? Yeah?”

He points to the empty air where he knows the coin counter for the total he’s been paid that night appears on the screens of his viewers.

"Pay me," he demands.

They do. 

 

> > **5/12/2014 21:25:32 : [[dangerprawn has tipped 5 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:25:35 : [[galien has tipped 3 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:25:38 : [[kaijūfan has tipped 4 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:25:40 : [[OoSuicideKingoO has tipped 5 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:25:41 : [[L’amour_OK has bid 5 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:25:45 : [[mnstrkmlwd has bid 6 coins]]**  
>  > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:25:50 :** help me get his clothes off.  
>  > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:25:56 :** gladly.  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:26:00 : [[galien has bid 5 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:26:06 : [[mnstrkmlwd has bid 6 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:26:11 :** _ **> >Going once: mnstrkmlwd -- 6 coins<<**  
>  _> **5/12/2014 21:25:16 :** _ _ **> >Going twice: mnstrkmlwd -- 6 coins<<**  
>  __**_mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:26:32 : ** Strip.

  
This is the part where he starts to shake, every time, or at least he thinks he does. When he looks down at his sticky hands, they’re completely still. In any case, it scares him.

“Take everything off?”

He hates that he sounds surprised about it. The idea makes him genuinely shy. As many times he’s done this, he can’t get past his reluctance.

But, it wouldn’t be a punishment game if he liked all of it. 

 

> > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:26:47 :** Everything.  
>  > ** _OoSuicideKingoO_ 5/12/2014 21:26:52 :** Go slow.  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:26:54 :** Pretend you give a shit.  
>  > ** _dangreprawn_ 5/12/2014 21:27:03 :** Kit, help me. I want to make a request.  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:26:37 **:** **[[Kit-t-Kat has bid 5 coins]]**  
>  ** > ** **5/12/2014 21:26:41 **:** **[[dangerprawn has bid 6 coins]]**  
>  **** > ** _dangerprawn_ 5/12/2014 21:27:06** : Tell us a story while you do it.

 

“Alright,” he agrees. “Strip like I give a shit, whatever that means, and tell a story while I’m at it.”

He can’t look into the camera. Eyes cast downward, he begins unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’m a virgin, you know,” he tells them.

This is true -- if one counts virginity, as queers do, as never having been brought to climax by the touch of another person.

It’s also true that he understands virginity to be a social construction which came about because of the commodification of women. But, he’d really appreciate if feminists would wait to dismantle the concepts of sexual purity and its defilement until after he’s done using them to get off.

He slips out of his shirt. The very next thing he says is a lie: “My boyfriend’s a virgin, too.”

He lies sometimes just for the hell of it, for no reason at all. The truth is, he doesn’t have a boyfriend. But he wishes he did. Not only isn’t Yamaguchi his boyfriend. He isn’t a virgin either. Tsukishima knows this for a fact.

He unfastens his belt and admits another truth: “He doesn’t know I do this.”

It is, in actuality, very likely that Yamaguchi is under the mistaken impression that he is entirely asexual.

One tooth at a time he unzips his fly. The next thing he says he isn’t sure if it’s true or false: “He’d never look at me again if he found out. Don’t you agree?” 

 

> > ** _L’amour_OK_ 5/12/2014 21:29:08 :** I wouldn’t.  
>  > ** _eagle-eye_ 5/12/2014 21:29:12 :** You’re fucked up.  
>  > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:29:16 :** Sick. Definitely sick.

 

That’s right. He’s screwed up. He’s twisted. There’s something wrong with him. He needs to hear this. He revels in it. Their abuse is nothing more than fuel for his orgasm.

He lifts his slim hips and slides out of his trousers.

He's switched on. Inside the thin fabric of his briefs his stiff dick strains and leaks. A wet spot soaks the tip. It’s clearly visible on the screen.

This is what they pay to see. The world is a different place without the protection of his clothing. His face burns. In his chair he sits up as straight as he can, but he can’t seem to stop his shoulders from sloping under the weight of his embarrassment.

He wonders how long he can stand the torment of sitting passively, not covering himself. So, he allows his knees to part slightly and again clamps his hands onto the edge of his seat to prevent himself from squirming.

His pulse races in his ears. 

 

> > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:29:38 :** Ah~! This is my favorite part. He’s so shy now.  
>  > ** _*soda~pop*_ 5/12/2014 21:29:42 :** True!! True!!  
>  > ** _OoSuicideKingoO_ 5/12/2014 21:29:48 :** lmao That stiffy looks like it hurts, Queenie.  
>  > ** _owlbrows209_ 5/12/2014 21:29:53 :** Maybe he really is a virgin. He gets excited so easy. Look, every time.

 

“Shut up and keep telling me what to do,” he snaps.

In this state, even his most virulent look of disdain appears petulant. His aggression is rather toothless, and impotent given that he’s nearly naked, very clearly so stiff it aches, and blushing down to his collarbones. He holds his head high despite the tent he’s pitching, and resists the urge to cover himself.

The cretins do not, in fact, shut up. 

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:30:16 :** Haha… look at that. His little dick is cu~te.  
>  > ** _L’amour_OK_ 5/12/2014 21:30:16 :** You said you’d show us where you’re marked.

 

He will, when he feels like it.

Now his hands do, in fact, tremble. In a fit of obstinace he plucks the candied strawberry off his wedge of shortcake. He folds his legs takes his recalcitrant time enjoying it. The texture of the seeds feel nice when he runs his tongue over them. It comforts him.

“Yes,” he concedes when he’s finished. He selects one of the rubber bands from his line of supplies, and stretches it between his fingers to demonstrate its elasticity. “But…”

The ones that are broken in but not yet worn out hurt the most. His viewers are aware of this fact. They’ve played at making him hurt himself with them several times before. He likes it when they make him put them around his legs and snap them on his inner thighs until it feels like the air has been sucked out of the room.

“First you have to promise you’ll punish me again.”

This line is trite but not contrived. He goddamn means it. He wants them to hurt him.

 

> **> _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:33:18 :**  We are disciplining you, Dum-Dum. Don’t you find this degrading?  
>  **> _OoSuicideKingoO_ 5/12/2014 21:33:18 :** Open your legs, Queenie.  
>  **> _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:33:18 :**  Haha... yeah.  Show us what you’ve got.

 

Fine.  He'll show them, if that's how they're going to be.

He sits up straighter. He takes a deep breath in and out to relax himself. The sound of his pulse in his ears becomes a low, droning buzz. His own quivering and the feeling of adrenaline rushing through his veins makes his limbs heavy.

Eyes closed, he winces as though preparing for a physical blow. Then he leans back and spreads his legs.

“Is this what you want?” he says, and he is numb with arousal. “Like this?”

The pale skin of his inner thighs is peppered with tiny abrasions. He runs his fingers over them. Some are still healing. Most are weeks old, light pink scars. All are self-inflicted.

“I’m an athlete, you know,” he tells them, and his voice sounds like it is not his own. He is both very firmly rooted in his own body and supremely detached, observing himself from a distance. He talks about Yamaguchi again, “At practice, my shorts are so short that I know the other boys can see these. Sometimes I’m afraid they’ll ask what happened.”

He opens his eyes and looks at his own image on the screen, legs spread and shaking with anticipation. His pupils are blown. His eyes are dark.

“They never do. They’re too polite.”

 

> > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:32:31 :** kaijū, doll, help me.  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:32:07 : [[kaijūfan has bid 5 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:32:11 : [[galien has bid 6 coins]]**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:32:16 : _> >Going once: galien -- 6 coins<<_**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:32:21 : _> >Going twice: galien -- 6 coins<<_**  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:32:26 : _> >Going three times: galien -- 6 coins<<_**  
>  > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:32:31 :** Fuck yourself for me, Queenie.  
>  > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:32:38 :** I’ve been waiting all day to say that.  
>  > ** _L’amour_OK_ 5/12/2014 21:32:38 :** Haha… for only 6 coins too.  
>  > ** _*soda~pop*_ 5/12/2014 21:32:38 :** You’re so cheap, Queenie.

 

“Hm,” he acknowledges.  Fingers flying across the keys, he types a quick command into the chat console. “The bidding is over.  From this point forward, ten coins to make a request.”

He is cheap. He’s also terrified. It doesn’t matter. Excitement is novocaine for his soul.

From his drawer he pulls a pair of black latex gloves. He tugs them on at the wrist with deliberation, not to tease but because aesthetically he finds them satisfying. They have an intimidating, clinical look to them.

Then he asks with professional calm, despite his hammering heart, “How do you want me positioned?”

 

> > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:34:16 :** Get on the floor. Angle the camera so it’s like we’re looking down on you.

 

"Okay," he agrees.

He feels as though he’s paying penance for misdeeds he doesn’t remember committing. He bets they can read his fear in his face, and that they enjoy it.

He climbs down off the pedestal of his office chair, lube and toy in hand. One knee thrown out at a right angle to stabilize himself, the knee other drawn all the way up to his chest, he lays back. The hardwood floor is uncomfortable. That’s good. The harsher they are, the better.

He looks to them for approval, “Like this? Can you see?”

He feels awfully dumb, legs splayed on the floor with his lotion and his foppish, pink dildo, exposing himself.

 

> **> _eagle-eye_ 5/12/2014 21:35:03 :** Pull the fabric aside.  
>  **> _*soda~pop*_ 5/12/2014 21:35:08 :** Why do you always insist on keeping those on? We’ve seen all of you there is to see.

 

It’s because he likes getting them dirty. He doesn’t say that. It takes all of his considerable will to simply do as he’s been told.

But first, he gropes for his lotion. The way the cap clicks and the odd chemical odor of it are the sound and the smell of sex to him. It’s some sort of Pavlovian response. He spills too much of it over his fingers. The way it slicks over his black gloves and makes them shine. He likes the lasciviousness of the way it drips.

It’s annoying how much hands shake. He tugs his underwear aside, over the curve of his ass just enough so they can watch him work.

The air is cold. It doesn’t matter. He’s lit up from the inside.

“This way?” he wants to know. His voice comes out smaller than he intends.

 

> > ** _dangerprawn_ 5/12/2014 21:35:33 :** You look gorgeous.  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:35:40 :** So docile, Queenie.  
>  > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:35:44 :** Are you feeling good?  
>  > **думаю-монстра 5/12/2014 21:35:52 :**  You can start now.

 

He start by skating his slick fingers down between his legs.  He twitches.  He feels great, better than great.  He is obscenity incarnate.  It’s hilarious. 

“Heh,” he huffs his laughter.  “Heh, heh.”

The point of this isn’t so much to ream himself as it is to exhibit himself.  He touches himself as though to say, _‘Wouldn’t you just love to touch me the way I’m touching myself?  Would it not be transcendent to feel how hot and tight I am inside?  Too bad! I’m just an image on your computer screen, and you’ll never know how to find me.’_

The texture of the gloves makes them more slippery than if he used bare skin.  Inside, he’s fluttering heat.  While he stretches himself he bites his lip, he closes his eyes and loses himself in thought.  Warped or amoral, in the privacy of his own head he can think about whatever he wants.  There’s nothing anyone can do about it.

He lets his head tip back.  

He imagines a society in which humiliation of this kind is essential, where he is required to do this in public: in front of a classroom, in the dusty, hard-packed dirt by the doors of the gymnasium, in an aisle of the supermarket on a Sunday afternoon while shoppers pass and do their very best to ignore him.  

He pictures himself on display as a cautionary tale.

Yes, on _display_ , that’s right.  His wrist begins to cramp.  He looks into the camera.  He wants more.  His viewers make the appropriate commands.

 

> > **5/12/2014 21:42:01 : [[mnstrkmlwd has tipped 10 coins]]**  
>  > ** _mnstrkmlwd_ 5/12/2014 21:42:07 :** Use your toy. But, don’t turn it on yet.

 

He retrieves his vibrator. It’s smooth and hard. Feeling the shape and length of his toy as he rolls the condom over it turns him on.

There is moment of resistance where tip of the toy catches at the puckered rim of his entrance. The pressure is too great. Then, centimeter by impossible centimeter, his flesh parts. The space inside him stretches. A part of him of which he is usually unaware is suddenly present, and real. It flickers into being, and expands, shivering.

It hurts at first.

He closes his eyes again, and moans just once, loud, like a whore probably because he is a whore, literally, “Oh, fuck.”

He thinks about people he doesn’t know examining him, inside his mouth, bending him over, prying fingers spreading his legs; touching him even though he doesn’t like to be touched, because he doesn’t like to be touched.

Inside he crushes the against the sweet spot that makes his vision flutter and his toes curl. Familiar with his own body, it’s easy to fall into a rolling rhythm.

With each sharp stroke in, he gasps. With each lingering tug out, he sighs.

He imagines a world in which he is required to suffer this invasion as a rite of passage, as a necessary shedding of hubris, but most of all, because he is the living representation of the desacralization of some nameless but inviolable sanctity. So, he deserves it.

‘This is what you get. This is what you get,’ he tells himself, and his wet mouth trembles.

The way the lotion drips, its viscosity, makes it look like spit or cum. Pretending that it is makes him moan again, “Ah…”

This is how he punishes himself.

His breath comes shallow. Heat rises in his face and gathers in his stomach, a heavy weight unfolding, spreading sweet and low. Deep in his hips it coils.

He checks the screen. His viewers have made more demands. They’re good to him.

 

> > **5/12/2014 21:49:32 : [[думаю-монстра has tipped 10 coins]]**  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:49:45 :** Turn it on.  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:50:36 : [[galien has tipped 10 coins]]**  
>  > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:50:45 :**  Remember to keep your legs spread.

 

He does. They can see everything. The vibration makes him numb with arousal, and the toy makes rude squelching noises, the faster he pierces himself. To his ears they are as disgusting as they are hot.

Humiliation, passed through his masochistic centrifuge, becomes pleasure, or an emotion more complex than pleasure. Joy: all emotional dissonances are resolved. He is liberated from the burden of personhood.

He sets a bouncing rhythm with driving force that grinds harder against his sweet spot with each successive stroke. His ignored cock is heavy. He can’t think.

His heart rattles in the cage of his ribs.

 

> > **5/12/2014 21:53:16 : [[mnstrkmlwd has tipped 10 coins]]**  
>  > ** _OoSuicideKingoO_ 5/12/2014 21:53:22 :** You can stroke off, too, you know.  
>  > ** _OoSuicideKingoO_ 5/12/2014 21:53:31 :** God knows the rest of are.

 

His hand is still slick with lube. He likes that. When it’s wet the sensation he can achieve with a light touch is breathtaking. Inside his underwear, he runs his fingers up the length of his cock and lingers at the sensitive head.

Sometimes during class he stares out the window down to the shed at treeline of the small grove below the school. He imagines being kept there in isolation -- blindfolded, bound, gagged -- quarantined because of his status as a vector for depravity.

His presence would be an open secret. The other boys would visit him. Their inability to resist his allure would anger them. They would punish him for it. Then, truly unable to help themselves, they would use him then leave him there filthy for the next boy.

That thought feels good. His feet cramp painfully. They twitch. He pauses, and breathes in and out slow to keep his climax at bay.

He wishes his viewers were in the room with him to slap him one sound crack across the face, to sober him. He wants someone to make him wait, make him stop, put him in the corner, press his face against the wall, and make him think about what he’s doing.

They don’t. They push him further. 

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:55:03 :** What’s the matter? Are you getting lazy?  
>  > **5/12/2014 21:55:12 : [[думаю-монстра has tipped 10 coins]]**  
>  > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:55:20 :** Turn your toy up again.

 

He doesn’t want to -- not yet.

“No,” he groans against the floor. He pushes it in deeper.  His hand twitches.  Sweat slicks hair to his forehead.  He has forgotten how to breathe. “Don’t make me.”

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:55:36 :** Why not?

 

“Because that’s going to make me cum,” he slurs. Spit pools in the corner of his mouth and dribbles onto the floor. He doesn’t care at all. He complains mindlessly, “I don’t wanna. I feel good. Don’t make me yet. You don’t understand.”

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:55:59 :** Too bad.

 

“I hate you,” he says, very quietly. “You’re the worst.”

Yet, fingers groping unskillfully, he does as he is instructed. The intensity of the vibration makes his need for release urgent. Slowly, with great care to not tip himself over the edge, he presses the toy in again. Its head slides sweet across the bundle of nerves that sends shards of pleasure shivering down to his toes and makes them curl.

He thinks again about the the shed at the treeline. Yamaguchi would find him there, and he would be nice to him. He would tend to him: bring him water, rub his sore wrists, pet his head. Yamaguchi’s kind touch in the dark would be the extent of his humanity. He would kiss him with an open mouth, soft and sweet.

The thought makes him cum.

“Ah!" he cries, startled. "Already?”

He lets it happen.

For a dizzying moment his the borders of his world are defined by the object filling him and his fingers. His pleasure contracts and pulses. It blinds him.

His hands are in the first moments, clumsy and unsuccessful in trying to catch cum and prevent it from dripping onto the floor. That’s alright. There’s a lot of it.

His climax is worth every punishing second of their invasive gazes. Disoriented, he thinks he might be whimpering. Doing this he achieves orgasms that get him off so hard they bring him closer to God.

That’s something, considering he doesn’t believe in God.

The last moments are always the best, just when he’s on the edge of coming back to himself, still flying. He’s on the floor of his room, alone. But, that doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. His world isn’t wonderful. It isn’t horrible either. It’s just okay. Everything’s alright. It’s an addictive state of apathy.

He could die that instant, having accomplished nothing with his life, and be happy.

He opens his eyes. He’s dizzy. For some reason, his glasses are cocked sideways.

 

> > ** _думаю-монстра_ 5/12/2014 21:57:23 :**  Eat it.

 

Without thought, sits up and obeys. In the blue light of the screen his eyes are vacant and glazed, a doll’s eyes. He draws his dirty fingers down one side of his face, pulls thick lines over the right lens of his glasses, and pushes them into his open mouth. They’re bitter gliding over his wet tongue, cum etched into the grooves of his fingerprints.

The toy slides out easily. He feels hollow. It hurts. But, he likes it.

To be a mindless creature is unadulterated bliss. Nothing is more satisfying than the experience of thoughtlessness. Sometimes he wonders if stupid people feel this good all the time, and he doesn’t feel bad for them anymore.

Kneeling he looks directly up into the camera, even though through one soiled lens of his glasses he can’t see. Drunk with endorphins, his smile is half-crazed.

“Was that good for you?” he asks them.

It’s strange to see in his own face when his mind is blown by bliss: pupils dilated, lips parted, like he’s about to moan again. Color is high in his cheeks. He thinks he’s pretty, or that he looks like he’s on drugs, maybe both. It doesn’t matter.

 

> > ** _galien_ 5/12/2014 21:58:14 :** That was great.  
>  > ** _dangerprawn_ 5/12/2014 21:58:22 :** You’re beautiful.  
>  > ** _eagle-eye_ 5/12/2014 21:58:27 :**  Divine.

 

The laws of gravity and of friction have stopped applying to his body. Lazily snaps the condom off his toy, then the gloves off his hands and chucks them into his wastepaper basket.

“I’m going to bed,” he announces. “There’s no amount of money you creeps could give me to let you watch me sleep.”  

 

> > ** _Kit-t-Kat_ 5/12/2014 21:59:07 :** Don’t go yet, Queenie!  
> 

He strikes the **[[esc]]** key. His music stops. His screen flashes: **[[Off Air]]**

He flops back on the bare hardwood floor and closes his eyes. Alone, he basks in the warmth of the afterglow. He’s buzzed. That’s alright. This is how he gets high, after all.

He could fall asleep right there, long limbs thrown carelessly on either side of him, still wearing his filthy underwear and his microphone. He really doesn’t give a shit.

Except, the house is hatefully quiet. If he listened closely enough, he could probably hear the refrigerator humming downstairs. He stares up at the spreading spider crack in his ceiling. A pipe rattles. He hates it.

He’s cold. The floor is uncomfortable. He doesn’t move to clean himself up. Getting up to take care of himself is too much of a bother. This is always when experiences brief, jarring moments of lucidity, with cum and sweat drying tacky on his skin.

He shouldn’t be doing this. It’s a bad idea. It’s dangerous. He’s stupid for thinking he can continue getting away with this without consequence. He knows this.

He can almost smell disaster mounting invisibly and flooding out toward him under his locked door, bubbling up through the silence in his empty house. Or, maybe, it comes from inside him, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it, or even escape from it.

If his parents ever found out he was doing this, he would be without a home.

“Shh,” he tells himself calmly, because if he sounds calm maybe he’ll feel calm, too. “Come on, now. Enough.”

He’s fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.

At least he’s not into autoerotic asphyxiation! Videos of him beating his meat may one day be discovered on the internet. However, he will never be found in his room, dick in hand, dead. Setting the bar low always does the trick in soothing his troubled mind.

That’s right. Everything’s alright. Isn’t it?

He’s not convinced.

He waits about thirty seconds, completely still, staring straight up, before he takes the exact same action he does every time he knows everything is fine, but is not convinced.

He flings his arm up onto his desk, grabs his phone and texts Yamaguchi: _‘I ate the cake. It was fine. Thanks for asking.’_

Then he waits again.

Yamaguchi replies almost immediately, as usual. _‘Of course you did! I bet you gave yourself a stomach ache, too.’_

This is a clear indication that the world is as it should be. Yamaguchi is like a service dog for emotional distress. If something is wrong, he usually knows. Tsukishima removes his microphone and he stands up.

 _‘I’m not sorry,’_ he types as he toddles over to his bed, unsteady on his feet.

 _‘Are you sure about that?’_ Yamaguchi answers before he can even make himself comfortable in his nest of pillows.

He meditates on this.

 _‘No,’_ he admits after a while, and curls in a gangly ball on top of his blankets. _‘Comfort me.’_

It’s much more comfortable, he notices as he watches the screen for Yamaguchi’s reply, to snuggle in the bed than it is to flop on the floor. This should seem obvious. He is dense sometimes.

Yamaguchi has the following to say: _‘You are the silliest person in the whole world. I like it. But, you sound tired and you should go to bed.’_

As is to be expected, Yamaguchi speaks words of truth and wisdom. Indeed he is both tired and silly.

He finds the energy to shower. Then he neatens his room, and falls asleep with his headphones on.

Just like he promised himself, the next day everything is fine. If he ignores the ache in his hips, it’s like nothing happened.

Then again, it’s like this every time.

**Author's Note:**

> What was that sound? It was my self-respect crumbling. Anyway...
> 
> [Follow me on tumblr!!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/winplaceshow) (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧


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